No RPG links, no drama, no post pestering.
Post by S p e c t r a on Jan 21, 2016 7:55:52 GMT -5
He daydreamed sometimes of sleep, sometimes of death.
He'd been young once, full of hope for the future. He might even have been handsome. He was not now. Though by no means elderly, time had not been kind to Theseus. His perpetually-thin mane and tail had grown thinner, bedraggled. His coat was too often dulled with dirt for camouflage, bright spots of amber-gold lost under indistinct smudges. He hid well in the dappled sunlight, slinking like a jungle beast. But he was a poor sight up close, short and stocky, unremarkable in mind or body. His iron will was all that was noteworthy about him, and that was most often employed to drive others away than to draw their admiration. He had his fair share of critics. He'd long since forfeit any hope of a normal life, friendships included.
He was only worth noting when he moved, when the trained strength of too many years of patrolling and fighting writ themselves into the slide of corded muscle, and he wove through the forest like a minnow darting downstream. Gravity was optional, it seemed, when he and his forest were one. He flew, and touched down only where he wished. Theseus knew every knot of brambles, every tangle of brush. The trees bore witness to his lonely vigil, and together they breathed and grew and rotted. He longed for rest the way a man dying in the desert longs for water. But death had not seen fit to grant an end to his vigil.
Trespassers were few now. Many lacked the strength to flee to the border, and numbers on either side of it dwindled. The Weaklands were not fat with chattel as before. The only consolation was that he had seen the number of Northern overseers drop as well.
Sleep was an errant guest, visiting in fits and spurts
OOC: NOT DONE. WIP WIP WIP.
